2-51（在线收听）

51.

There was some talk, after the attack, about pulling me off the battlefield. Again.

I couldn’t bear to think about that. It was too awful to contemplate.

To keep my mind off the possibility, I fell to my work, got into the rhythm of the job.

My schedule was helpfully rigid: two days of planned ops, three days of VHR (very highreadiness). In other words, sitting around a tent, waiting to be summoned.

The VHR tent had the look and feel of a student room at university. The collegiality, theboredom—the mess. There were several cracked-leather couches, a big Union Jack on the wall,snack foods everywhere. We’d pass the time playing FIFA, drinking gallons of coffee, flippingthrough lad mags. (Loaded was quite popular.) But then the alarm would sound and my studentdays, along with every other era of my life, would feel a million miles away.

One of the lads said we were glorified firefighters. He wasn’t wrong. Never fully asleep, neverfully relaxed, always ready to go. We could be sipping a cup of tea, eating an ice cream, cryingabout a girl, having a chat about football, but our senses were always tuned and our muscles werealways taut, awaiting that alarm.

The alarm itself was a phone. Red, plain, no buttons, no dial, just a base and handset. Its ringerwas antique, consummately British. Brrrang. The sound was vaguely familiar; I couldn’t place itat first. Eventually I realized. It was exactly like Granny’s phone at Sandringham on her big desk,in the huge sitting room where she took calls between games of bridge.

There were always four of us in the VHR tent. Two flight crews of two men each, a pilot and agunner. I was a gunner and my pilot was Dave—tall, lanky, built like a long-distance marathoner,which in fact he was. He had short dark hair and an epic desert tan.

More glaringly, he possessed a deeply enigmatic sense of humor. Several times a day I’d askmyself: Is Dave serious? Is he being sarcastic? I could never tell. It’s going to take me a while tosolve this guy, I’d think. But I never did.

Upon hearing the red phone ring, three of us would drop everything, bolt for the Apache, whilethe fourth would answer the phone and gather details of the op from a voice at the other end. Wasit a medevac? (Medical evacuation.) A TIC? (Troops in contact.) If the latter, how far were thetroops, how quickly could we get to them?

Once inside the Apache we’d fire up the air-con, strap on harnesses and body armor. I’d clickon one of the four radios, get more details on the mission, punch the GPS coordinates into theonboard computer. The first time you ever start an Apache, going through preflight checks takesone hour, if not more. After a few weeks at Bastion, Dave and I had it down to eight minutes. Andit still felt like an eternity.

We were always heavy. Brimming with fuel, bristling with a full complement of missiles, plusenough 30-mm rounds to turn a concrete apartment building into Swiss cheese—you could feel allthat stuff holding you down, tying you to Earth. My first-ever mission, a TIC, I resented thefeeling, the contrast between our urgency and Earth’s gravity.

I remember clearing Bastion’s sandbag walls with inches to spare, not flinching, not givingthat wall a second thought. There was work to do, lives to save. Then, seconds later, a cockpitwarning light began flashing. ENG CHIPS.

Meaning: Land. Now.

Shit. We’re going to have to put down in Taliban territory. I started thinking of Bodmin Moor.

Then I thought…maybe we could just ignore the warning light?

No, Dave was already turning us back to Bastion.

He was the more experienced flier. He’d already done three tours, he knew all about thosewarning lights. Some you could ignore—they blinked all the time and you pulled out the fuses tomake them shut up—but not this one.

I felt cheated. I wanted to go, go, go. I was willing to risk crashing, being taken prisoner—whatever. Ours not to reason why, as Flea’s great-granddad said, or Tennyson. Whoever. Thepoint was: Unto the breach.